


Maybe you will, maybe you won't (one day maybe you might)

by SmilinStar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Time Jump, Undercover, post season one finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can feel his heart thumping away under her fingertips, remarkably steady, unaffected as she whispers, “I don't trust you.” “I know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe you will, maybe you won't (one day maybe you might)

**Author's Note:**

> Feels like I lost my Ward x Simmons muse for an absolute age, and it was actually pretty daunting getting back into writing for AOS again. This was written for WS summer week 10 and kind of takes both prompts (confrontation and fake!married) and also throws in a little of undercover assignment, and hey presto, this is what you get.

\-----

She doesn't have to turn around to know who has followed after her.

 

She's used to the tell-tale mechanical whirr, and though the laboured breathing that usually accompanies him has drastically improved, she can still hear him panting from the excessive exertion.

 

She almost feels bad.

 

But then she remembers why he'd given chase and why she'd run in the first place and doesn't give the guilt a second chance.

 

“Jemma . . .”

 

She resolutely refuses to fold. Turns away completely, ignoring the flash of monochrome and not even letting her gaze drift upwards for the tiniest of moments lest she catch his eyes, and gets sucked into the maelstrom of guilt-induced obligation and expectation that now came part and parcel with him.

 

Of course they sent him.

 

The one person to whom she can no longer utter a single “No.”

 

Bastards. The lot of them.

 

She thinks she hears a little of disbelief mixed in with a smidgeon of pride when he says, “I can't believe you just walked out of there like that.”

 

She doesn't say anything, simply moves around the lab grabbing random bits of equipment, all for the sole purpose of opening cupboards and slamming them shut. If it wasn't already apparent, she's mad.

 

Really mad.

 

Positively seething.

 

“You know you could get court-martialled for insubordination.”

 

She snorts, “I'd like to see him try.”

 

“Jemma, I know this-”

 

“No, you don't know!” she bursts out, finally spinning around to stare him down.

 

She's gripping the edge of the counter, breathing hard, eyes wide and on the verge of an entirely inappropriate emotional meltdown.

 

“Jemma . . .” he says again, his voice soft, and he's looking at her like that again.

 

Like she's his whole world and he deserves so much better.

 

“How can you, of all people, be okay with the idea of me doing this?” she says.

 

“Because as hard as it is, you need to let it go, you need to-”

 

“Forgive him?” she interrupts with a harsh laugh, “He doesn't deserve it.”

 

“That may be so, but it isn't about him, it's about you. About you letting it go, allowing yourself to move on.”

 

She blinks back angry tears and shakes her head.

 

It's not the betrayal that fuels her ire. There's a fair bit of self-loathing thrown in there too.

 

In part for her being such a damn fool and allowing Ward to play them all so easily, but also for letting her guard down so far that he'd managed to worm his way in and settle in a place that he had no right getting comfortable.

 

More than anything she hates that small, tiniest part of her that still keeps that candle burning, especially when he doesn't deserve it and there's someone who does, who always has, who has been standing beside her the whole damn time. She hates herself mostly for not feeling the same way as Fitz, and knowing that every day she breaks his heart just that little bit more and that she's being irrevocably wasted on someone so inherently undeserving.

 

And though she knows its all on her, its so much easier to direct all that hatred on _him._

 

He edges closer, eyes never leaving hers even though she knows its straining his neck to do so. He breaks through her haze of guilt and anger with nothing but words, “In the end though, it's not about any of us, it's about doing what needs to be done, its about our responsibility and duty as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and doing what we signed up for in the first place.”

 

She can't help but smile, even if it is a little broken, “Since when did you become the level-headed one Fitz?”

 

His answering smile lacks all humour and is heartbreaking in its bleak honesty, “Three years ago, Simmons, three years ago.”

 

She lets out a single steadying breath, and tries, tries to let it go, “Fine, I'll do it.”

 

“Good. Let's go talk to Coulson.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She watches him spin on the spot and wheel himself out.

 

It does nothing to lessen the guilt.

 

\-----

 

 

Coulson surprisingly doesn't give her the third degree – simply gives her a stern look and a “Don't ever let that happen again.”

 

Suitably chastised, she gives him one quick nod and a “Yes sir.”

 

And although that one nod and two words are meant to symbolise her acquiescence and the end to her resistance, she can't help the multitude of questions:

 

“Do you really think I'm the best person for this mission?”

 

“Why me?”

 

“Why not Skye?”

 

But he simply answers them all and counters back every point of dissent.

 

Their target, a Professor Wainwright, a widely respected member of faculty of biomedicine at Columbia University, was a man whose daytime activities keenly matched his rather impressive resume word for word. But his night time activities? Well they would render his years of academia useless as he'd have no place for it in a windowless cell of a high security federal prison.

 

As far as S.H.I.E.L.D. were aware, the good professor was currently in possession of the missing half of the formula for a particularly nasty contagion that in the hands of the wrong people could do some serious worldwide damage. And as luck would have it, he was a man with little to no scruples and had already started talks of selling to the highest bidder.

 

Ward had been working undercover for the past four months as the insanely rich, Mr Cavendish, heir apparent to the Cavendish Corporation, a multi-billion dollar Biotech company that was literally salivating at the prospect of getting their hands on the finished product and therefore more than willing to pay extortionate amounts for the missing puzzle piece.

 

The corporation was of course a big fat lie, but that's where having two geniuses in Skye and Fitz came in handy in fabricating the entire ruse and lending it legitimacy and the ability to withstand the closest of scrutiny.

 

Ward had easily charmed his way into Wainwright's good graces and finally nabbed himself and _his lovely wife_ a dinner invite at his home.

 

It was the perfect opportunity to access his personal computer, where according to extensive digging on both Ward and Skye's part, the formula had to be hiding under numerous encrypted security measures.

 

It was a simple mission really. Go in, hide in plain sight, and then when the time was right, sneak away, hack into the computer, find the formula, and fry his hardware, and then get away undetected, of course.

 

She didn't really have to think too hard about it to know that she was the most suitable candidate to go in with him, but that didn't mean she couldn't think of a million other reasons why it was the worst idea in the world.

 

She was, hands down, the worst liar.

 

An abysmal actress.

 

Utterly rubbish at undercover espionage.

 

And then to add to everything that was going against the chances of her pulling this off successfully, she was supposed to pretend to be _Ward's wife._

They were screwed. Completely.

 

And she lets Coulson know it in no uncertain terms.

 

“Fine,” she snaps, “but don't say I didn't warn you that this is a terrible idea.”

 

He only gives her the smallest of smiles in return, “Duly noted.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

He comes to find her later that evening, and it doesn't surprise her at all.

 

She's in the kitchen, stirring the milk into her tea when she hears him come in.

 

She pictures him leaning up against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest as he stares at her, eyes boring holes into her back.

 

She doesn't turn around to confirm her suspicions.

 

He clears his throat, but she stays as she is, “Something I can do for you Ward?”

 

He sighs, “I know this isn't ideal and I know working with me is the last thing you wanted, but you're going to have to at least be able to look me in the eye if we have any chance of pulling this off.”

 

She drops the teaspoon in the sink with a clatter and finally turns to face him.

 

It takes a lot of will power for her to drag her eyes up to meet his and plaster a sweet smile on her lips, “I hate you.”

 

If the words wound him in any way, it doesn't show. She has no reason to believe he even cares.

 

She's told him as much many times before over the last year.

 

The rest of the team may have accepted him back working with them, and yes, it might have been under the proviso of having severely restricted clearance and constant supervision and assessment, but that only emphasised the point - it was never going to be the same.

 

She closes the small gap between them with two short steps and places a hand on his chest as she looks up at him.

 

She can feel his heart thumping away under her fingertips, remarkably steady, unaffected as she whispers, “I don't trust you.”

 

“I know.”

 

She lets her fingers drop away and steps back, “Doesn't mean I can't be a professional and get this job done.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good,” she echoes, before grabbing her mug and walking away.

 

If her hand is shaking, she hides it away in the curl of her fingers, tight against her sweating palms.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So are we all clear on the plan?” Fitz asks as he hands over the flash drive that will simultaneously securely transmit the data to their servers whilst infecting Wainwright's computer with a traceless virus.

 

Simmons turns the device over in her fingers. It's a fairly inconspicuous lipstick container, and she can't help but think of herself as Sydney Bristow as she drops it into her clutch.

 

“Yes,” she answers as she snaps it shut.

 

“Ward?” Coulson asks.

 

The former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, turned Coulson's pet project in giving everyone second chances, looks up from buttoning up his shirt cuffs and answers with a stoic, “Yes, sir.”

 

As he tugs on his jacket there appears to be some sort of silent communication going on between the two men and Simmons isn't sure she even wants to try and figure it out.

 

Agent May walks up the ramp just then, interrupting the moment as she throws a set of car keys at Ward, “She's all filled up. You guys ready?”

 

She nods her head, whilst Ward simply opts to walk down towards the car stationed on the tarmac.

 

She moves to follow after but is stopped in her tracks by Skye calling out, “Hang on guys, wait a minute. You're forgetting these.”

 

Two simple wedding bands shine up at her from the centre of Skye's palm.

 

She tries not to think about it too much as she snatches them both up and forces hers on to her finger. The other she drops onto Ward's open and waiting hand before brushing past and heading straight for the car.

 

She avoids looking at his hands on the steering wheel the entire journey there.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Deep breath Simmons, you're going to be fine.”

 

She forces down the urge to snap at him and opts instead to glare at his profile, and says through gritted teeth, “I _am_ fine.”

 

“You're practically vibrating with anxiety,” he says, and she swears there's a smirk on his lips as he reaches up to press the door bell.

 

_The nerve!_

“I certainly am-”

 

She's cut off mid rant when he turns on her sharply and places a warm hand over her shawl covered shoulder, “Jemma, honey, I don't think my tie's sitting right.”

 

It's the split second she needs to fall into character as the front door opens just then, and she barely manages a thoroughly convincing, exasperated, “Come here, you're utterly hopeless,” before Mrs Wainwright is standing right there.

 

“I think that's all men in general, don't you?”

 

She turns to face their hostess and smiles wide, “Mrs Wainwright, it's a pleasure to meet you!”

 

The older woman looks at Ward with a genuine smile and warmth she's not expecting.

 

“Grant, my dear, this must be your lovely wife. Shame on you, you never told me she was this beautiful!”

 

He actually manages to look bashful, before smiling down at her with a sparkling grin, “I guess I just wanted to keep her all to myself.”

 

Once again she's reminded at just how good a liar he is, swallows down the bile, and keeps the smile plastered on her face as she hands over a bouquet of flowers.

 

“Oh thank you-”

 

“Jemma,” she fills in helpfully

 

“Jemma. Come in, come in both of you.”

 

She ushers them inside, and leads them into the large living space. It's there that Simmons finally comes face to face with Professor Wainwright.

 

With his greying hair, accompanied by a decent length beard and half-moon spectacles, he looks every bit the professor committed to melding young minds with knowledge and wisdom and nothing at all like the unscrupulous, greedy monster that he actually is.

 

It's hard for her to reconcile the two, especially when he reaches forward and grabs hold of Ward, pulling him into a bear hug, and slaps him on the back, “Welcome son, glad you could make it.”

 

After he releases Ward, he gets a glimpse of her and the warmth of his smile doesn't fade, “And this must be the lovely Mrs Cavendish.”

 

He takes hold of her hand and places a kiss atop it.

 

“It's so nice to finally meet you,” she gushes, saccharine smile firmly in place, “And so kind of you to invite us both into your home for dinner.”

 

“Oh think nothing of it,” he dismisses, patting the back of her hand before turning to Ward with a raised brow, “A Brit, huh?”

 

“Oh yes,” Ward smiles back and she's glad she manages to keep herself in check when he reaches out and curves an arm around her lower back, pulling her right into his side, leaving his hand resting right there on her waist.

 

“I couldn't help myself.”

 

“Oh I bet you couldn't. I do believe I've found your one weakness Grant.”

 

Ward chuckles quietly as Wainwright slaps him good naturedly on the back.

 

If she hadn't been so hyper-focussed on his fingers tracing circles into her hip bone, she would have easily missed the stutter in his movements with the professor's last words.

 

She tries not to read into it too much.

 

Over the course of the next hour, the Wainwright's children and their respective spouses join the rapidly growing dinner party, as do a few other members of the faculty both she and Ward have already familiarised themselves with.

 

Discussion quickly turns to business and it amazes her how easily lies fall from the professor's mouth and how utterly unsuspecting everyone is.

 

Ward fits in seamlessly, taking the discussion in his stride and she finds herself unwillingly in awe.

 

She catches herself staring numerous times throughout the evening, and thinks she manages to get away unnoticed, but of course, nothing escapes him.

 

He's in the middle of a conversation with Wainwright's eldest son-in-law when he throws his head back and openly laughs.

 

And for a second, she forgets.

 

Forgets all the pain and suffering. Forgets the anger and hatred. Forgets the fractured state of her heart. Forgets it all.

 

He turns to look at her across the room, mouth still open in a grin. His eyes catch hers and his lips come together in a smile that is wholly unfair, and then to add to her misery, he winks.

 

The blush that rises on her cheeks isn't pretend.

 

And the worst thing is he knows it.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Okay, okay enough with the shop talk,” Mrs Wainwright says as she slides the last plate onto the dinner table and takes her seat across from her, “Tell me about you two.”

 

Taking a small sip from her wine glass, she swallows and asks, “What would you like to know?”

 

“How did you two meet? Was it love at first sight?”

 

“Oh for him, yes, for me not so much,” she smiles. She can see the grin on Ward's face beside her and the slight shake of his head as he mutters, “Lies.”

 

She cocks her head to the side and raises a brow up at him, “Oh really, that's not how it happened?”

 

“Nope, that is not how it happened. I distinctly remember someone getting all red faced and tongue tied and rambling on about how it was like Christmas come early meeting me.”

 

Turning to face him completely, she shakes her head, “That is not what I said. And anyway, I'll admit to having been a little excited to meet the man donating all this new chemistry equipment to the school out of the goodness of his heart, but it was a damn shame when he turned out to be a too serious, humourless prig.”

 

Her words are met with chuckles around the dinner table, and she knows she's flushing bright red. She hopes their observers put it down to embarrassment and not from the look on her husband's face and the hand that has somehow managed to find the bare skin of her thigh where her dress has crept up above her knee.

 

His fingers may be callused but they are almost unbearably warm.

 

It doesn't help things much either when he then reaches up to curl a stray strand of hair behind her ear and caress her cheek, “Well it's a good thing first impressions aren't always right.”

 

And just like that, she comes crashing down.

 

She thinks its spite when she smiles at him, reaches forwards and kisses him on the lips for the briefest of seconds, “Very true, my love. Very true.”

 

She ignores the clench of his fingers on her leg as she does and most certainly pays no attention to the thundering of her own heartbeat in her ears.

 

The conversation steers away from them as other couples start regaling stories of how they first met, and who hated who, and Simmons takes the opportunity to take a breath and calm down. She's here on a mission and she won't have Ward distracting her. She makes a point of clasping his hand under the table and sliding it away off of her and on to his own lap.

 

She can feel his gaze on her, but focusses her attention on the dinner table, and tries not to wonder whether the red of her lips is now staining his.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Now?”

 

“Do you think they've had enough time?”

 

“They've got to be half way through dinner, it's now or never.”

 

“Do it.”

 

Fitz nods at the order, and dials.

 

It rings three times before she picks it up.

 

_“Hello? Mum? Is everything okay?”_

 

“Okay, Simmons, you know what to do, ground floor, back of the house, computer's in his study, as soon as the drive is in the port, I'll start running the decryption.”

 

He hears the scrape of her chair as she stands, and a muffled, _“I'm ever so sorry, I really need to take this, would you please excuse me?”_ as she covers the phone with a hand.

 

He hears a faint _“Of course, dear,”_ and briefly hears Ward's voice as he starts to explain the fabricated story of his mother-in-law having taken ill quite recently, but he doesn't hear the rest of it as Simmons safely makes it out of the dining room.

 

“Jemma . . ?”

 

“Remind me again, why am I doing this and not Ward?”

 

“Because you're less shady than Ward, even if you are a terrible actress.”

 

“Thank you for that, okay, I'm in. Inserting the drive now.”

 

“Okay then, bear with me, this should take fifteen, no make that twenty, twenty-five seconds max.”

 

“Fitz!” Her voice is a strained whisper and he can literally feel the stress coming off of her in waves and down the phone line.

 

“Okay, okay, done. That should have done it.”

 

“What am I looking for?”

 

“Nothing, you don't have to do anything, except of course, not get caught, because that would be bad, so very-”

 

“Fitz!”

 

“Sorry, sorry, 22 percent uploaded so far.”

 

He can hear nothing but her shallow breathing and the nervous tick of her finger drumming on the desk.

 

“Jemma?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You're doing fine. And don't worry, Ward will keep them busy.”

 

She's silent for a good ten seconds before she asks, “You trust him?”

 

“56 percent uploaded.”

 

“Fitz?”

 

“No, maybe, I don't know.”

 

“How?”

 

“I really don't think now is a good time for this discussion Jemma. 73 percent uploaded.”

 

He doesn't hear any more out of her, just continues to watch the screen in front of him, urging it on, 78, 79 percent.

 

He thinks they're nearly home and dry when Jemma's panicked voice suddenly comes through his head piece, “Oh no, oh no, someone's coming.”

 

“Crap, she's going to get made,” he says, eyes flashing up at Coulson hovering over his shoulder.

 

Grabbing hold of another head set fast, Coulson motions for him to patch him through to her.

 

“Simmons? Simmons do you copy?”

 

“Sir? Yes, yes I do.”

 

“Leave the drive, get out of the room, start pacing the corridor before they catch you in there and buy us some more time. You can do this, Jemma.”

 

“Okay, okay, I can do this,” she mutters, psyching herself up as she steps out of the study, closing the door quietly behind her and launching just a little awkwardly into her undercover persona, “ _Oh mum, are you sure you're going to be okay, I can get Grant to give me . . ._ Ward?”

 

“Ward? What? What's going on? Simmons? Simmons!”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Ward?”

 

She's utterly relieved to see him turn the corner, but the rest of her sentence is smothered in a hug, and the confusion is only resolved once he whispers into her ear, “Mrs Wainwright's four steps behind me.”

 

She peers over his shoulder and sees the older woman approach and barely has enough wits about her to remember to silence Fitz's panicked yells on the phone. She then buries her face in his shirt and allows him to run his hands through her hair, and whisper nonsense all in the guise of comforting her.

 

“Oh dear, is everything all right?”

 

“She's okay, her mum's okay but she just had a little fright that's all,” Ward explains quietly, his hand having now left her hair and moved down to rub comforting circles into her back. His fingers leave a burning trail across her exposed skin and she tries really hard not to react.

 

“Could we have a few minutes?” he then asks.

 

“Oh of course, take all the time you need.”

 

Ordinarily she'd feel bad for lying to someone so nice and genuine, but then she remembers just who her husband is, and unsurprisingly finds she could care less.

 

She hears her footsteps recede and waits until Ward pulls away first, “Go.”

 

She wastes no time in switching Fitz back on to the phone and hurries back to the computer.

 

“What the hell, Jemma?!”

 

“I'll explain later, tell me it's done.”

 

“It's done.”

 

“Okay, we'll be out of here soon.”

 

Disconnecting the drive, she quickly powers down the computer and rushes back out to Ward's side.

 

“Let's get out of here.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

They make it back to the Bus without incident.

 

Coulson allows them the chance to shower and change into fresh and more comfortable clothing before debriefing an hour later.

 

The mission is hailed a success.

 

They had managed to get out of there without raising any suspicions, easily fooling them with Simmons' worried and upset daughter act.

 

The entire contents of Wainwright's computer had been successfully uploaded on to their servers, including the missing half of the formula, and a virus had also been deployed to fry his hard drive at the same time.

 

All in all, it's a job well done.

 

For her efforts she gets a hug from Skye, a pat on the back, and a congratulatory 'well done, good job' from everyone else.

 

Ward is largely ignored.

 

It's not the first time its happened.

 

But it is the first time she notices and is actually bothered by it.

 

And that in itself irritates her.

 

Because nothing has changed. Nothing.

 

It's nearly midnight before the meeting is adjourned and everyone disappears.

 

She almost wants to laugh when she turns around to see that they're the only two left.

 

She thinks its some conspiracy against her or maybe it had been Coulson's plan all along.

 

The tension lingering in the air is awkward and stifling, and almost every part of her wants to run and hide. He doesn't give her much time to battle her indecision though as he wordlessly gets up from his seat and moves to leave.

 

It's a split second before she stops him and realises she's made her choice, “Ward?”

 

He turns around, and the closed off, weary expression on his face almost has her recoiling and changing her mind.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The words come out quiet. They sound rough, almost as if they've been spoken over sandpaper.

 

“Thank you for having my back,” she says again, voice a little stronger and with a little more conviction.

 

For all his ability to expertly lie and hide, he can do nothing to stop the split second of surprise that crosses his face. But its the hope in his eyes that catches her off guard and she feels it prickle in the centre of her chest.

 

He says nothing, simply nods his acknowledgement and turns to leave again.

 

But she can't let it go.

 

She wishes she could. It would be so much easier if she'd snuffed that candle out once and for all.

 

“Do you regret it?”

 

The words float in the air.

 

For a moment she thinks he hasn't heard her.

 

But he has, and she knows he has when he stops mid-step.

 

The question needs no clarification. She knows he knows exactly what it is she's asking.

 

He turns back around and meets her gaze head on, “Every day.”

 

She refuses to shed any more tears.

 

“I hate you.”

 

He sighs, and looks away, “I know.”

 

“I don't trust you.”

 

“I know.”

 

She feels like they're at an impasse. Nothing has changed.

 

Yet everything has.

 

“Simmons?”

 

“Yes?”

 

He looks back at her, and there it is again. Hope.

 

“Maybe one day . . .”

 

She lets him have this one thing. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he never will. But maybe one day he might.

 

It's a small smile, but it's enough, “Maybe.”

 

 

 

**End.**

 

 


End file.
